


The Long Con

by kedgeree



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Eames is a Con Man, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 04:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: A forger's job is to provide luck the assistance it needs.





	The Long Con

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2017 Inception Remix Challenge

*******

**Reno**

Eames finds a casino with vintage coin-op slots, because he's feeling the need for a bit of mindless arm movement, and the game of "one-armed bandit" he's just played in his hotel bathroom hasn't helped.

His aesthetic is vintage, anyway, so it's a proper choice. Just a classically stylish man and his slot machine, sharing some quality time in a dark, cozy corner. Just the two of them, tucked away from the flashing, shouting, sweet-sour smoky smell, and the strangers. Always so many strangers.

That's really all he'd wanted. A bit of quality time. A lovely little interlude. Just the two of them. Would that really have been such an ordeal?

_Cherry - Cherry - Bar_

Certainly it would not.

Silly Arthur.

_Lemon - Bar - Seven_

What's a charming, timeless, devilishly handsome man to do?

Seriously, what does he have to do?

He's tried all four of the F's--that's flirting, flattery, and a straight up "fancy a fuck?" (which counts as two)—and what fruit for his labors?

_Diamond - Seven - Plum_

_"Not interested, Eames."_

It's not that he feels the sting of rejection. Not at all. Price of a gamble, fish in the sea, and so forth. Companionship, in its most sweatily euphemistic sense, is not difficult to come by. It's not as though Arthur's fins flutter any more prettily than any of the other fishes' do. It's not as though—

"Hey, there."

Eames glances up. Euro-handsome, dinner jacket, gin and spearmint, sliding onto the empty stool next to Eames, thighs spread too wide.

"I saw you here all alone and—"

"Piss off," Eames snaps.

           _Lemon - Seven - Lemon_

It's not as though Arthur's special.

           _Plum - Diamond - Bar_

There is the principle of the thing, though. If there's a flaw in Eames's techniques of persuasion, professional pride dictates he must strive for improvement.

And when one Mr. Arthur "Not Interested" With-Knobs-On leaves instead with bloody—

           _Plum - Cherry - Bell_

—with bloody _Cobb_ (arms slung over shoulders and _fire up the grill_ and _cupcakes for the kids_ and _then we shall buy a country house and frolic together in fields of sunlit wildflowers_ ), well—

Let it never been said that Eames is uninterested in professional growth.

           _Horseshoe - Diamond - Seven_

He may be a winsome, artlessly nonchalant, jauntily unbothered sort of creature, but let it never be said that Eames doesn't _care._

A rogue, a maverick lone wolf, a ne'er-do well he may be, but Eames will not be buffeted by the winds of fate. A forger's job is to provide luck the assistance it needs.

           _Plum - Lemon - Diamond_

_Bell - Horseshoe - Cherry_

           _Seven - Bar - Plum_

Eames's luck will change.

 

***

 

**Durango**

Eames starts, shudders, when knuckles rap his passenger-side window.

Bloody _finally_. He's been crying in his New Car Smell-scented leased Chrysler for fucking half an hour now.

He turns his face from darkness into the soft light from the lot light he's parked beneath.

Arthur's eyes widen in dismay and he actually takes a step back, hips bumping into the side door of his own bland sedan rental.

Eames scrubs the tears from his cheeks with one hand, impatient, while he rolls down the window with the other, gruffing out a rough, caught-out, "Yeah?"

Arthur has the look he always gets when he's trying not to react, like someone has just put an ice cube down his pants in the middle of a church service. His hands have balled up into fists at his side. "It…can wait," he finally gets out. "Okay. Then."

Eames rolls up the window and starts the car.

Makes sure he ducks his head into darkness once more before he smiles.

How do you plant an idea? The only way it will stick?

You make them think it's their own.

 

*

 

"Sorry about that." Eames leans low over Arthur's shoulder so he can make his voice soft. Intimate. He doesn't need to specify what _that_ is. Arthur won't have forgotten his customarily insouciant colleague's poor, tear-ravaged face. Has, in fact, been flicking uncomfortable glances away from Eames all morning.

As Eames's breath stirs the tiny hairs on the back of his neck, Arthur shivers. Eames can actually see it ripple down his back, rebound off Arthur's typically ascetic choice of hard-seated chair, and stiffen his spine. "Not a problem." Arthur clears his throat exactly like a person who doesn't want to discuss anything even vaguely related to emotion. "Everything, um, okay?"

"Nothing to be concerned about. Just got a bit maudlin," Eames offers, deliberately avoiding Arthur's eyes to give his nonchalance a contrasting soupçon of awkwardness. He must make light of his embarrassment. Because certainly he wouldn't want Arthur to think at all sympathetically toward him. Perish the thought. "Silly, really. A song on the radio. It reminded me of…" A distant, pensive half-smile. "Something."

The war between discomfort and curiosity is clear in Arthur's eyes. He won't ask the question, of course. Not yet.

"But nothing for you to worry about," Eames murmurs. "Nothing that might affect the job."

"Uh," says Arthur.

Eames pats Arthur's shoulder, all settled then, and walks away humming under his breath. Like he's remembering a melody.

Arthur won't ask. Yet. But now the string is dangling in front of the kitten.

 

*

 

In case Arthur decides he's ready to ask, Eames makes himself available. He's generous that way. In many ways, really. If given the opportunity. All he needs is a chance.

So he's at the abandoned craft supply shop that is their base of operations on Arthur time, soul-wrenchingly early, which is how he happens to see Arthur arrive to work in Not-Arthur's car.

Not-Arthur is a woman. And Arthur climbs out of Not-Arthur's car shower-damp and smiling.

Completely by accident, Eames knocks the tall, hot cup of Arthur's favorite sweet cinnamon extra-foam latte off Arthur's desk and into the trash. It splatters and runs down the putty-colored side of the plastic bin.

And if he takes the white box of Arthur's favorite Nutella donuts to his own desk behind the empty ribbon shelves and eats them all, it's the sugar that makes him feel sick.

When Arthur pokes his head curiously around the corner of the shelves to wish him good morning, it's only because of the touch of heartburn that Eames's smile might not reach his eyes when he smirks back, "Big night?"

 

*

 

"Driver?" Eames blinks.

"Yeah." Arthur gives him a strange look. "I had to hire one this morning. I wrecked my car."

"Oh. No. I see." Eames rubs a hand over his stomach. "Terrible. Dreadful."

 

*

 

Would Dominick Cobb have gone out of his way, practically across town, to give a lift to an auto-less Arthur? Eames dares to say he certainly would not. Because Dominick Cobb is an unworthy, self-absorbed prick.

Eames, on the other hand, is not only sensitive (evidence: tender tears) but gallant (evidence: donning a most becoming metaphorical chauffeur cap so Arthur needn't trouble any more drivers-for-hire). Eames is the sort of fellow that can take care of a man who is always taking care of everyone else.

"Thanks," Arthur says as he settles into the passenger seat, "I appreciate the ride."

"No trouble, pet," Eames says. "It's on my way."

 

*

 

It turns out that when you give someone a lift home, you end up at their house.

It hadn't occurred to Eames at all that might happen.

But since he's _here_ …

 

*

 

The abrupt quiet in the car after Eames clicks off the radio is awkward. Especially with Eames staring down at his feet and biting his lip.

"Well, thanks—" Arthur starts.

"That song—" Eames blurts.

Arthur freezes, hand part way to the handle of the car door.

"It's just…I can't get it out of my head." Eames swipes at the corner of his eye with one finger. Laughs a half-laugh, a little helpless. And waits.

He waits until the heavy silence practically rings with Arthur's unease, knows Arthur is flipping through a mental catalogue of responses to an unfamiliar situation, weighing risks, predicting outcomes. Can picture the micro-expressions Arthur doesn't think he makes: the puzzled face, the irritable-at-being-puzzled face. The line-on-the-forehead of choosing a course of action and—

"And today would have been his—" Eames cuts himself off with a swift intake of breath.

The slightly widened eyes of realization.

 

*

 

Eames has put some time into considering the question: What exactly is it that Arthur gets out of his relationship with Cobb? The average or uninvested observer might think Arthur likes to solve problems; Arthur likes tidying up messes. Said observer would, of course, be correct. However, there is something more.

It goes like this: Cobb lost Mal. Cobb is sad. Arthur wants Cobb to not be sad.

Arthur, underneath the tight suits and spreadsheets and behind the deadly aim…is _kind_.

Eames can work with that.

One lonely widower—or reasonable facsimile—coming right up.

 

*

 

"I'm sorry," Arthur breathes. "I…didn't know."

"Arthur…" Eames sighs as he peers out the window at the doorstep of Arthur's rented duplex. Glowing in the lamp-light like a video game checkpoint. "Can I come in?"

 

*

 

"I could make some coffee."

"There's no beer?" Eames frowns.

Arthur gives him an odd look.

"Coffee would be lovely." Eames folds his hands, demure, meek. Sad. "If it's no trouble." He's sad and lonely man who doesn't need beer. He's a sad, lonely Dom Cobb, except smarter and sexier and with a sense of humor and some sodding _gratitude_ and far better fashion sense. Nimble fingers and a fantastic arse. His eyes drift to Arthur, fiddling with the coffee maker. Speaking of fantastic arses…

A sad and lonely man could find a lot of comfort there.

"We don't _have_ to talk about it," Eames calls forlornly into the kitchen, because they most definitely have to talk about it if Eames is going to press his advantage.

Arthur takes the bait. Leans into the doorway with a coffee mug in one hand. "Who was he?"

Ad lib is where Eames really shines.

He thinks he'll call him...Lukas.

 

*

 

Lukas. His lover. His partner. Lukas with his laughing grey eyes who loved motorcycles and science fiction. Who told Eames no, he most certainly would not go out with him, because he had very important, serious lawyer things to study and couldn't afford the distraction. Lukas who wrote stories in the margins of his textbooks and read them to Eames in bed. Lukas who winked as he shuffled the cards before he dealt Eames a perfect flush. Hearts. Of course.

Lukas who died while Eames was away.

Eames who never got to say goodbye.

 

*

 

"No." Arthur presses a glass of wine into his trembling hands. "I mean it. Please stay."

"I don't mean to impose…"

"It's fine," Arthur says firmly. "We'll order in."

Eames smiles. "Thai would be lovely."

 

*

 

Fire up the grill, cupcakes for the kids.

Eames is invited to the family dinner _now_.

 

***

 

**Lima**

"Eames," Arthur huffs into the sheen of sweat on Eames's shoulder, just before he bites down and groans.

Eames's fingertips leave white trails across Arthur's flushed, slick skin.

"Darling," he whispers, reverent.

They listen to the ocean, the traffic, laughter from the street below as their breathing slows and the sheets start to cool.

And Arthur turns his face to Eames's, eyes dark and serious as ever, and makes the little noise he always makes afterward that sounds like contentment.

The kiss is slow and sweet, and everything Eames has ever wanted.

 

*

_Seven - Seven - Seven_

_Winner._

_*_

 

It was a flight attendant named Riya who'd been into sci-fi. She read to him out of a little notebook of her stories, spaceships and foreplay, laughing, in their hotel bed, and afterward Eames had gone to sleep thinking perhaps they'd visit the Museo del Prado the next day. Fellow creative soul and all that. He'd found a "thanks for a good time!" note on his pillow in the morning.

Vikram was a dealer in Monte Carlo. And he really had dealt Eames a perfect flush. The next night he dealt four queens to a blonde in a tight yellow dress. The night after, Eames left town.

Clark Gable liked motorcycles. And his eyes were a sort of grey. And come on…The Misfits? Mutiny on the Bounty? It Happened One Night?

Yanna who was putting herself through law school. She'd never gone out with Eames. It was fine, he'd stolen the flowers he brought her anyway.

And it was Henrik who'd died. Thick hair and hands, deliciously dark sense of humor. A lovely, rather filthy week in Dubrovnik.

"So, you're some sort of con man?"

"I am indeed."

"How am I supposed to trust you?"

"Oh, you can't," Eames had smiled, and thought, yes, he would absolutely look Henrik up next time he was in town.

 

*

 

And then there was Arthur.

 

*

 

The country house where Eames pictured Arthur and Cobb spending their golden years together he now pictures in the English countryside. Devon. There are indeed fields of sunlit wildflowers in summer, and a few sheep dotting the gentle green-gold hills. And in winter, a big tree practically disappearing under garlands of lights and brilliant baubles, a shaggy dog on the fireside rug, reproachful when Eames presses a sticky-backed red bow on top of her head.

"Are you my Christmas present?" Eames will murmur into Arthur's hair.

Arthur will be wearing thick, warm socks underneath their heavy quilt and he'll say, "No, you idiot. I'm Jewish." And his eyes will crinkle at the corners, and the air will smell of cedar.

Will it really matter then that it all started with a tiny bit of a fib?

Not even a lie.

More of an illusion, really.

Keeping it up will be, if nothing else, good professional practice.

 

*

 

All he has to do is pretend that he was once a pathetic, lonely man.

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, BakerStMel, for betaing and for generally keeping me from imploding.


End file.
